Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  With a quick pivot on one foot, Bill turned and tossed Brenda’s phone into the lake. Plunk! The water splashed up, making a picturesque spray in the glinting sun.

  “How could you do that?” Brenda stomped her foot.

  “I’m only protecting you. What if your husband put a GPS on your phone?”

  “Chad won’t wake up until tomorrow. He’s totally out of it. I drugged him good.”

  “What if someone at the station calls him, huh? What if when he doesn’t answer, they send someone over to his place? If they see he’s drugged, who will they suspect? You. You aren’t very smart, Brenda. Leave the thinking to me.”

  That was Bill, always the diplomat. Not. His patronizing attitude toward women hadn’t changed one bit since he and I tangled more than two years ago.

  “Time for you to hit the road, Brenda. We can’t afford to get caught, and someone might be looking for your car.”

  “Aw, come on,” said Brenda. “I did what you wanted, and now you’re making me leave.”

  “Get out of here while you’ve got the chance,” he said. “Or else. I don’t want that car of yours to cause trouble.”

  Ninety-seven

  Kicking gravel as she walked, she stomped over to her Camry. She hit the gas so hard that her tires spun. Dust and dirt flew everywhere. As she zoomed out of the lot, Bill laughed. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said, “What a total pain in the butt. Druggie.”

  His voice sounded hoarse and he looked awful. His hair was badly cut, dirt crusted his nails, and his clothes were shabby and dirty. Life on the lam didn’t suit him. I wondered how his attorney got him out of jail so fast because Bill—once a dapper man with champagne tastes and a GQ wardrobe—now looked like thirty days of hard time. In his right hand, he waved a gun.

  “Johnny, tape Kiki’s hands. Let’s get her in the boat.” Bill walked over to the tied-up vessel and checked its outboard motor.

  I heard the tape ripping from the roll, and I felt Johnny pressing the tape against my back and lifting it several times. I knew what he was doing. It was an old scrapbooking trick. By pressing the tape against fabric, it lost much of its adhesive grip—but it could still stick. He wrapped the tape around my hands individually and joined the two pieces behind my back. I could still pull my hands apart if need be.

  “Got her,” yelled Johnny. He took my elbow and I took my sweet time, fighting him every step of the way. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Five. I now stood right next to Sheila.

  She tilted her head slightly to look into my eyes, and what I saw there was sadness … and love. Really, it wasn’t surprising. We’d come to appreciate each other, to see the qualities that made George love us both. I blinked three times, and she gave me a sad smile, the tape moving slightly upwards and her eyes crinkling. She knew I was mimicking the three squeezes Anya and I often shared. So she blinked three times back at me.

  In all these years, we’d never said, “I love you” to each other. Now here we were, at the brink of death, declaring an affection that both of us craved so much. We’d found a place in each other’s hearts.

  I had to save her.

  Bill walked over to Sheila. “Fun and games time. I’ve been looking forward to this!” He grabbed her by the hair so hard that he pulled her right out of the lawn chair. With a muffled shriek, she staggered to her feet.

  I lurched toward her, but Johnny held me back. “Let him fiddle with her. Then you can draw on him.”

  Bill didn’t hear this because Sheila was shaking her head at him and trying to yell, kicking at him as best she could with the tape binding her feet.

  “Go get in the boat!” He pulled his gun out of his waistband and pointed it. He gestured toward the short pier, a walkway of loose boards, maybe a yard in total length. Johnny and I were only fifteen feet away from it. Bill and Sheila were six feet closer. But Sheila didn’t move. Her feet were tethered to each other.

  “I said get in!” he yelled.

  When she refused to move, he jerked her by one arm and dragged her to the walkway.

  I couldn’t stand it. I tugged free of Johnny’s grip. “Leave her alone, Bill” I said. “Your quarrel is with me.” The duct tape still linked my hands together behind my back. I hadn’t pulled it hard enough to separate the two pieces.

  Bill turned to answer me—and Sheila reared back and head butted him. Her skull smashed into his face with a satisfying splat.

  “Ow!” yelled Bill. His hand flew to his busted lip but he didn’t drop his gun. With a vicious shove, he pushed Sheila forward, propelling her down the short walkway. Her loosely bound feet made walking difficult. Because her arms were tied behind her back, she couldn’t use them for balance. With blood streaming down his face, Bill stepped behind her and gave her a second shove toward the boat.

  The force of his blow whiplashed her head back and forth. Sheila tumbled forward to the side of the pier and the pylon where the boat was tethered.

  Johnny kept his grip on me, wrapping one arm around my waist. He tapped my gun holster with one finger as a reminder. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t shoot anyone. There had to be another way. And waving the Kel-Tec around empty didn’t seem like a good idea.

  “You’ve got to do it,” he hissed.

  “It’s not loaded,” I whispered.

  He cussed.

  Bill gave Sheila one more push—and this one sent her sprawling. She fell face first into the boat with a sickening CRACK! The little vessel rocked back and forth violently, before yawing out in a half-circle of protest.

  Sheila slumped over a seat, face down, with her forehead resting against the wooden floorboards.

  “That’ll teach you,” snarled Bill. He tucked his gun in his belt and smiled.

  Ninety-eight

  Somewhere in the distance came the sound of a car, traveling this way fast.

  We all turned to look. Well, all of us but Sheila.

  I prayed it was help. Had someone come at last? My heart leaped in my chest. Would it be Robbie Holmes? Or even a groggy Detweiler? Maybe an Illinois law enforcement official? I stood on tiptoes and watched, listening as the tires crunched along the small lane that connected this spot with the highway.

  The car rounded the curve, and my heart sank.

  It was Brenda Detweiler. Back again. Her Camry pulled into the gravel parking area, spewing rocks as the tires spun.

  I nearly cried with disappointment.

  Why has she come back? As soon as I thought it, I knew the answer: She’s nuts! And she’s high. And she hates me!

  She hopped out of her car and screamed, “Hey! I’ve got a right to be here!”

  “Brenda, get! Go on! Scram! I told you to leave—now do it or else!” Bill lifted his upper lip in a sneer.

  “No!” she stood there defiantly, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression petulant. Her lower lip stuck out like a ledge.

  “Johnny, use that tape on her. Since she’s so proud of that car, tape her into the passenger seat.”

  Johnny nodded. “Okay, boss.” But first he walked me over to the lawn chair where Sheila had been sitting—and shoved me into a seated position.

  “Hey, old woman. You’re taking up the entire boat!” Bill grabbed Sheila by her hair and hoisted her into a seated position. “We’ve got other passengers on this pleasure cruise,” he chuckled.

  She moaned with pain.

  I couldn’t stand it.

  His mistake was turning his back on me. First I jerked my hands apart. Then I jumped up from the lawn chair. As I ran, I pulled the small pair of Fiskars out of my pocket. I threw myself at Bill, slamming my hand down with all the force I could muster. Those small Fiskars scissors snuggled tight between my fingers like a brass knuckle. I had a killer grip on them.

  The fabric of Bill�
��s shirt gave with a loud rip. His cry of pain was nearly simultaneous. I felt the scissor blades meet resistance as they slammed against his right shoulder, his scapula. The blades vibrated against my palm with the force of my blow. I didn’t let go. Instead, I twisted the handle, hard. Hot blood spilled over my hands, turning them slick and useless. But I didn’t turn loose of the scissors. I wrapped my fingers through the grip and held onto them.

  Bill sagged away from me as he squealed in pain. He swung at me but the movement activated his shoulder muscles and intensified his agony. In response, he staggered but he didn’t drop his gun. He did try to raise it, but when his arm reached his waist, he turned white and groaned, losing his grip on the gun.

  “You … you …” he sputtered at me, his face a washed-out color as he fought to control his body. I’d struck a good blow, and unless he could shoot with his left hand, I doubted he could fire at me even if he found his weapon. It would hurt him too much to raise his right arm. The boat he and Sheila were in rocked crazily.

  “Let me go!” Brenda’s fists rained down on Johnny.

  I turned to the sound of her voice. “Then leave!” he yelled at her.

  “I won’t,” she screamed back. They wrestled with each other, hand to hand, but I had no doubt he could hold his own. I thought about telling him to take the car—he could hop in and drive off.

  But what would happen to Sheila? How bad off was Bill?

  The exchange between Johnny and Brenda couldn’t have been five seconds, but in that time, Bill regained his senses. Still standing in the boat, he raised his left fist and smacked me up the side of the head.

  I saw stars and my ears rang. The world tip-tilted, and dizziness overcame me. I grabbed one of the supports of the pier and held on tight. That was all that kept me from falling into the water.

  Ninety-nine

  “Eeeooowww!” A cry came from somewhere deep inside of Bill. His angry blow to me cost him dearly. He nearly sobbed from the effort. His knees buckled and he cried out. But he didn’t fall over.

  I stepped over to the spot where he’d lost his gun. Scanning the ground, I found it and kicked at it. But my aim wasn’t very good. It didn’t go far. Just tumbled toward the gravel lot. But at least it was farther away from him. Now he’d have to get out of the boat, run down the short pier, and search for it in the weeds. Immediately, I realized how stupid I’d been. I should have grabbed the gun and tossed it in the water.

  With a roar of anger, Bill hopped off the boat and ran toward me, his head down, in the manner of a raging bull. I ducked out of his way and he ran past me.

  I whirled and was on him, stabbing the scissor tips into his right bicep. Twisting those trusty orange handles, I dug them deep in his flesh, ignoring the hot blood squirting all over my hand. Bill screamed out in pain.

  He swung at me with a clumsy sweep of his left arm and he hit me high in the chest. Knocked me off balance.

  I stumbled backward. My arms windmilled in the air. I slipped on the gravel and went down. Landing hard, the wind wooshed out of my lungs. I gasped and coughed. I couldn’t take in any air.

  Bang! A gunshot split the air.

  Johnny staggered away from Brenda’s car. His hands were splayed against his gut. Crimson blood leaked through his fingers as he clutched his belly.

  “Oh, no, no,” I cried. I sprang up and ran to his side.

  Brenda screamed, a frustrated cry like a thwarted child. “I didn’t mean to! It went off in my hand!”

  “Get help!” I yelled to her. This was the worst possible scenario—seeing my best friend’s brother dragged into this ugly vendetta. I imagined how Mert would take the news he’d been shot. Johnny’s feet refused to cooperate and he wobbled. Taking his weight on me, I helped him to the ground. “No,” I sobbed. “No, please, no.”

  “It was an accident,” Brenda stood over me, crying.

  “Then go get help. Hurry!”

  She hopped back in her car and roared out of the parking lot.

  A steady stream of blood flowed from the hole. How could I stop the flow? I knelt and pressed my hands on top of Johnny’s, covering his wound and praying for help.

  Mert would never forgive me for this.

  I would never forgive myself.

  Johnny’s eyes locked onto mine, and I felt the desperation in them. “Johnny! Johnny! Hang on, buddy. Hang on!”

  “Shoot him,” Johnny gasped. “Shoot him … or he’ll kill all of us. Get his phone.”

  Detweiler’s voice echoed in my head: “Don’t pull your gun unless you plan to use it.”

  “Where’s your car? Or his?” I asked. Maybe I could load him up, grab Sheila, and drive away.

  “Came by boat,” said Johnny, his voice fading and his eyes dimming.

  I know nothing about boats. Nothing. And I do hate the water, except to look at it.

  I yanked the Kel-Tec out of the holster and reached in my pocket. I could hear Bill stumbling through the undergrowth, hear his feet crunching twigs as he searched for his gun. I pulled the clip out of my hip pocket. My hand shook, but I succeeded in loading the clip.

  If we were going to survive, I had to save us.

  One hundred

  Bill was on his hands and knees, searching the area by the pier. By my calculations, he was about two feet from where I’d kicked his gun. I could see the blood drenching his hand. The hole I’d torn in his bicep sent a steady stream of blood-red geysers down his arm. His back sported a slower leak, a widening circle of red. He had to be weakening. If I stayed hunched over, I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. Bill would think I was tending Johnny.

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants.

  “Take your time, babe,” said Johnny. I could barely hear him. “Aim. You might get just one shot.” I stayed hunched over my fallen friend, hoping Bill would think I was tending him. To staunch the flow of Johnny’s blood, I took off my blouse and stuffed it under his hands.

  “Love that black bra. Now I can die a happy man,” said Johnny.

  “Don’t you dare!” I turned and looked over my shoulder. Bill’s hands parted the purple-headed irises. Any minute now, he’d have his gun.

  Sheila suddenly yelled, “Help! Somebody help us!” She must have chewed through the duct tape over her mouth—or maybe Johnny hadn’t attached it securely, using the same trick he had to bind my hands.

  “Got it!” Bill said, standing up slowly. I saw the gun in his hand.

  “Help! Help!” Sheila screamed.

  “Shut up, old lady,” Bill said and he crossed the distance to her in a hurry. “Hey? What’s that? A ring!”

  In her struggles, she’d exposed her diamond ring. Johnny had taped over her hands to hide it, trying to protect Sheila. Oh, how proud she was of that Mary Pillsbury engagement ring! Now it became a liability. I turned and saw it sparkle in the sun, a beacon casting a brilliant rainbow of colors.

  “Help,” she whimpered.

  Bill staggered back to the pier. Holding on to a post, he dropped into the boat.

  “I told you to shut up! Give me that ring. Take it off.” He bent over her and grunted. I could hear Sheila’s elbows bumping against the boat as she fought him. He wrestled her, his arms moving as he tried to snatch the ring.

  Slowly I stepped closer to the boat, getting myself in position. Detweiler had taught me to shoot for center mass. But as I calculated the trajectory of my bullet, I knew that a center mass shot could go right through Bill and hit Sheila.

  Instead of shooting, I waited. Patiently. My target moved up and down. I stood my ground, computing the angle of my gun. Figuring the path of the bullet. Taking my time for the kill shot.

  I heard gravel crunching. I remembered what Detweiler said about distractions. Even so, I glanced over my shoulder. Brenda Detweiler’s car raced in
to the parking lot. Back again. Her Camry spit out gravel as she braked to a stop. I ignored her. Maybe her conscience had gotten to her. She was a trained nurse. How could she drive off and leave Johnny bleeding? Especially when it was her fault?

  I put all my attention on Bill. He would kill Sheila unless I intervened. No doubt he’d toss her overboard as soon as he took her ring. I sighted my gun. I slowed my breathing. I heard the Camry door open. This time I didn’t turn.

  Inhale—pause—exhale—pause. The rhythm steadied me. The barrel of the gun quit moving between breaths. A Zen-like calm flowed over me.

  I can do this!

  Bill pinned Sheila to the seat of the boat with a loud thunk!

  “Give it to me,” Bill’s voice was tight with anger. Totally focused on getting the ring, he’d forgotten all about me. Besides, where would I go? I wouldn’t leave Johnny. I didn’t have a car. Or a phone. Or a gun.

  He underestimated me. People often do. Kiki Lowenstein, alone, with a gun.

  “Noooo!” Sheila’s muffled cry was hard to decipher.

  I heard the crack of bone. Probably her finger. She howled in pain. Bill stood up triumphantly. Now he was clear of Sheila, or at least his head was. He held the ring on his thumb. His hand wasn’t raised high, but it was still a gesture of defiance. In his other hand I saw his gun.

  This was my best chance. I took a breath, paused, sighted the back of Bill’s head, squeezed the trigger, and BANG!

  A red mist sprayed from his head, creating a demonic halo. His knees crumbled, he listed to one side, and fell out of the boat with a decisive splash.

  From behind me came an answering BANG! Almost an echo of my shot. A searing pain laid a trail along my right temple. I smelled flesh burning. My hand touched the spot that hurt, and a hot trickle ran over my fingers. I turned to see Brenda Detweiler, her gun held high, still aiming at me. She grinned.

  Everything went black.